The Shrine Of Mad Laughter

God of terror, very low dost thou bring us,

very low hast thou brought us...

A sensation of everlasting rot and those frantic wails,

No, it is not a fall into the abyss

The defiance of descent,

A coronation beyond liberty and slavery;

The cry of woe and deliverance exudes a flame,

Evasive as sound and ether:

An instant of collusion with death,

Without hope nor prospect, yet it is a

World below and above and in all eternity,

A gift of fever, the wind of death

That sustains the life in me, yes,

The lightness of hovering in permanent

Anguish; I dared to borrow those words,

To articulate them and to savour their turpitude,

As I beheld the shrine of mad laughter.

The limit is crossed with a weary horror:

Hope seemed a respect which fatigue grants to the necessity of the world.

As if Death was dashed onto the death within,

A violent thrust stealing the light of the eyes,

A ray of darkness, a negation,

The bread of bitterness

that ignites neither devotion nor fervour;

Resplendent nothingness!

Make all things appear with clarity,

Ruined in the flame of repudiation,

In the flame of God!

Interwoven joy and confusion,

A stabbing confusion, asphyxiation from within,

Yet I gained this certitude:

Malediction, degradation, sown in me like seeds

Now belonged to death,

in harbouring a desire for the hideous,

I was beckoning to death.

Insatiable combustion, expand,

this body is the vessel of grace!

The idea of God is pale next to that of perdition,

but of this I could have no inkling in advance.